Cedric understood perfectly: if he ate Xuanling too, he could gain both special abilities at once.
The thought had barely surfaced before he pushed it down.
No matter how tempting it was, he was still human. He couldn't do something like that.
"You're fine now. Go sit on the windowsill."
Cedric set Xuanling by the window, then added, still uneasy:
"Don't leave droppings in the room, got it?"
The crow, which had been as stiff as an ornament, suddenly reacted.
The moment Xuanling heard the words "something tasty," his eyes began to dart around. Then he opened his beak and cawed.
Cedric understood him.
You'd better keep your word.
He couldn't help laughing. He reached out and rubbed Xuanling's head, and Xuanling obligingly closed his eyes and pressed against Cedric's fingers.
With the black bird finally settled, Cedric turned back toward the stove.
A pile of greasy pots and dishes sat there.
His stomach churned. He looked away and sat glumly at the desk. Then he took out a blank parchment notebook and wrote a few lines on the first page.
Biting Cabbage.
Danger level: 5.
Origin: China.
Characteristics: Bitter and astringent; tasted like soggy cardboard.
Cooking method: ...
Cedric's pen stopped there.
He looked at the half of the Biting Cabbage he had prepared on the cutting board, his brow slowly furrowing.
Stir-fry it over high heat? No.
Boil it? Even worse. The way this thing looks, once it goes into water, I'll probably pull out a pile of mush.
"Dry it out first, then add plenty of sugar to cover the bitterness. It should make a decent snack."
Cedric quickly made up his mind.
The problem was that the flame he normally used for brewing potions was far too weak. Trying to roast food over it was wishful thinking.
It looked like he would have to go downstairs.
He tidied up the half of the Biting Cabbage, drizzled it with olive oil, and sprinkled on salt and sugar, intending to turn it into a sweet-and-salty crisp.
The moment he carried the plate out of the room, Xuanling lifted his tail by the window and took care of his business. Then he flapped over to Cedric's shoulder.
"Caw! Caw!"
He called while staring at the plate, his gaze practically glued to it.
"You certainly know how to pick your food."
Cedric glanced sideways at him but didn't chase him off.
The afternoon had worn on, and the Leaky Cauldron was at its quietest. No one should object if he borrowed the kitchen now.
When he went downstairs, he found that there were indeed few customers in the main room.
There was, however, someone standing at the counter.
The man's robe was absurdly loose, swallowing him whole. Several layers of cloth were wrapped around his head, making him look for all the world as though he had come from India.
Cedric took a second look.
Hunting level: 59.
Among wizards, that put him firmly in the ranks of those who could fight.
Something about the outfit seemed familiar, but Cedric couldn't remember where he had seen it. He didn't pry and simply stood behind the man with his plate, waiting.
"Your room is on the third floor. Here's the key."
Ron, the proprietor, handed the man his key and added casually:
"Mr. Quirrell, was it? If you need anything else, just call me."
Quirrell.
The name twanged through Cedric's mind like a taut string.
Wasn't he the professor who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts during Harry's first year?
He had almost forgotten Harry Potter entirely.
Lately, all his attention had been on raising his hunting level and finding rare ingredients. He had even put Voldemort, the greatest villain in this world, out of his mind.
Now that he thought about it, that was rather ridiculous.
Then again, none of it had much to do with him for the time being.
If there was one possible connection, it might be the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.
Speaking of which, what does Basilisk taste like?
Cedric really wanted to find out.
"I don't usually need much."
Quirinus Quirrell took the key, his tone polite.
"There's no need to clean my room, either. If I need anything, I'll call for you."
With that, he turned and headed upstairs.
As he passed Cedric, Quirrell noticed the plate of something resembling raw lettuce in his hands. He found the boy's behavior a little odd, but didn't look any closer and walked straight past.
"Need something, young man?"
Ron spotted Cedric from behind the counter and spoke up first.
Cedric had the sort of face people took to easily, men and women alike. Ron was no exception.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"I'd like to use your oven to make something to eat."
Cedric gave him a bright smile.
"That's easy enough."
Ron smiled too and waved him toward the kitchen.
"It's empty right now. Come with me."
Carrying his luggage, Quirinus Quirrell walked down a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever and opened a door tucked into the far corner.
It was the most secluded room in the entire inn.
He had barely set down his suitcase when his body went rigid.
A chill crept across his neck.
Then cold scales slid against his skin, and a snake's head emerged from a gap in his collar.
"This wretched place is as miserable as ever."
The snake's head flicked its tongue, but the voice that came from it was human.
"It suits you rather well, Mr. Quirrell. I expect the rest of your life will be much the same."
Quirrell's face darkened at once.
He hated the cramped, filthy room that looked ready to fall apart at any moment. He hated the evil spirit wrapped around him even more.
But he had brought it all on himself.
Back then, while seeking the power of Dark Magic, he had found a clue among a heap of tattered old records. They pointed to Voldemort, a Dark Lord who had swept across Europe fifty years earlier.
Quirrell had thought he had found weakened prey and planned to take advantage of Voldemort's condition to wring whatever he could from him.
Who could have imagined that Voldemort had not quite died?
Not only had the stubborn creature survived, he had effortlessly turned the tables and overpowered Quirrell.
Now Quirrell had only one path left.
He had to obey the devil and carry out his orders like a dog.
Otherwise, the rest of his life might truly be like this crumbling inn: so dark that not a glimmer of light could be seen.
Before you continue